In Violets I Balance
by Deb Zorski
Summary: Miss Irene Adler, back in London for an opera tour, wants meaning in her life. But being in London again means confronting her feelings for a certain remarkable detective, and love is a tricky game when Mr. Holmes bends the rules. Adler/Holmes.
1. Playing the Game

How wonderfully London sparkled at night, beaming with a romantic glow all the way up the Thames. In the privacy of her hotel room window, Irene Adler allowed herself to dreamily admire its riverside beauty. Seated on the vanity chair, she leaned her cheek on one hand and watched the ferries float by with half-closed eyes and a warm smile. It was only her first time returning to London since she had won a certain detective's wit, and she would be finishing the opera tour in a few days. She was repulsed by the idea of returning to New Jersey.

London had always felt more welcoming to her, even despite the complicated scandal that brought her there years before. Without that precious little problem, she'd have never known London or met and matched its great detective, Sherlock Holmes. Nor would she have fallen in love with him, which was really the most hurtful truth of all. All her confidence at outwitting him vanished when her love for him re-appeared. She admitted it privately, during moments when she observed couples together in the park or sharing an afternoon tea. She wanted someone meaningful to share her life with, and not just another string of husbands like the ones she had gone through so rapidly.

A knock at the suite door jolted her from her wistful fantasies, and a messenger served her a silver tray littered with calling cards.

"They're very impatient tonight, madam," the young man told her. "Very eager to see their star."

"Well," Irene mused, throwing one in the trash who was a fifth-time visitor, "tell them that I want French champagne in one hand and two dozen roses in the other. Otherwise, I won't be seeing any of them." She shuffled through the other cards, taking the new ones to learn the names so they would flip and dance on her tongue. She would charm and flirt, knowing full well she wasn't at all interested in any of them.

"Toss the rest," she told the porter over one shoulder regarding the cards. "They're useless. I know why they're here." Irene sighed almost inaudibly as she sat at the vanity. "Tell them half an hour, roses and champagne at the ready. We'll see who stays." She smiled hollowly, but tipped the boy anyhow. He rushed off to the line of gentlemen awaiting her in the foyer and she again went to the window. The splendor of London would have to wait while she auditioned the gentlemen for their role of her newest suitor.

Each man awaiting her presence was as flat and small as his calling card. _En masse_, they were overwhelming, but individually - no matter how artfully designed - they were merely ethereal, items to be tossed. Irene, deep down, felt very guilty at the ritual she'd become accustomed to, of allowing them each their turn but accepting none for the duration. It would be a trick far more cruel, though, to outright lie just to spare their feelings. She loved none of them, and to make them think she might, even the slightest bit, would devastate them. So, night after night, they would await her and she would impress them. On went a charming smile and glittering personality, and Miss Irene Adler descended for her second performance of the evening.


	2. Hailing a Cab

_**A/N:**_ This chapter makes reference to the literary Sherlock Holmes and Granada TV series via the sovereign worn on a golden watch chain. A bit odd in the film category I know, but the 2009 film offers a very vivid Irene Adler, so I thought a bit of poetic license might be apropos.

* * *

On her way to the Opera House the following evening, Irene saw a few couples in various romances: sharing dessert at a café, taking a leisurely walk arm in arm, or even hurrying into cabs wearing playful smiles. She turned onto a side street hurriedly to hail a cab on a less crowded corner, looking longingly at a flower shop on the way and admiring the small bouquets. Such pretty little things, perfumed and sweet, yet nothing so grandiose as the roses she always requested from suitors. These bouquets were exotic, colorful, and lovely - a perfectly wonderful token of affection. Irene smiled briefly as she considered stopping by on the way back after the performance. The purple ones would look magnificent on the vanity.

A cab came almost immediately once she reached the corner, and once the driver settled in his seat in front of the hansom she told him she wanted the Opera House.

"And what a nice night it is for it, mum," the driver replied with a lopsided smile over his shoulder at her. "I hear Irene Adler is singin' this ev'nin," he chuckled in excitement. "You a right lucky lady to be seein' such a talent, mum, if you don't mind my sayin' it."

Irene smiled as they rode on. "I suppose I am quite lucky, yes. She must be truly wonderful."

"Right so, mum! A national treasure, she is!" the driver nodded enthusiastically. "I'd give me right arm to hear her sing so lovely."

"She plays a queen in this opera." Irene informed with a glimmer in her eye, enjoying her anonymity for once.

"S'that so? Mighty fine, I'd say. "Ere we are, mum." the driver hopped down from his seat and helped her out of the cab. "You have a nice night now, mum." he tipped his faded cap to her.

Irene pressed a coin in his hand and smiled as he looked up at her in astonishment. "There's a sovereign, my man," she proclaimed. "I will tell Miss Adler you send her best wishes. Good evening." Irene walked joyfully through the doors of the Opera House, still smiling amusedly and with a spring in her step.

The cabbie stared a moment longer after her, closing his fingers into a fist to grasp the coin. When he reached into his pocket to deposit the sovereign, an identical sovereign caught the glint of the streetlight above. It glittered on a gold chain just under his waistcoat.


	3. Along with the Driver

The cab driver pulled onto a darkened side street just past the Opera House and jumped off his seat, quickly shedding his overcoat and hat and throwing them in the back of the cab. He gingerly peeled off a false nose and eyebrows, wincing when the gum caught on his own hair. Finally pulling out a handkerchief to wipe the dirt from his face and hands, Sherlock Holmes donned his top hat and tailcoat, checking his watch. He smiled at the sovereign that hung on his chain, patting his pocket to ensure the security of the newly acquired one. Safely free of his disguise, he entered the Opera and was shown to his usual gentleman's box.

His plan had worked well, and judging from Miss Adler's refusal to admit her true identity, he knew he had fooled her into thinking he was only a commoner. It was interesting to note Miss Adler's stubborn cling to her assumed anonymity; the logical progression led him to conclude she would jump at the chance to fawn over herself with a complete stranger. Why, then, had she not revealed who she truly was to him when he was in disguise? He had made sure to compliment her extravagantly, but despite it all she pretended she was not the famous star her namesake allowed her. It puzzled him, as Irene usually did. She was in London again but had not yet turned up on his doorstep to provide him his latest case. Whenever Irene came to him, it was always to help herself out of something, stringing him along for the ride. If Irene Adler had no case to give him, then he would have to make one for her. He craved a new problem, one that simply must have Miss Adler entangled within its depths.

All during the performance, he clearly saw she was as beautiful as ever, singing at the top of her game. America must have been good to her - but not _too_ good, or else she'd have stayed there. She must have returned to London for a reason, and Holmes was determined to find it out. He enjoyed her performance, applauding louder than he usually would and enjoying her dressed in such rich finery as would fit the Spanish queen she imitated.

Her winning smile, though, could not hide the momentary glances of her moistened eyes. They'd catch the spotlights every now and again, and while Holmes knew she loved her work, she was never moved to tears by her own arias. Contrary to his own beliefs, he knew she was not so shallow or conceited - even though she often pretended to be. She still had glimmers of romantic love, humility, and caring hiding behind her emotionally tough façade, one that he could always see right through even when he made her believe he did not. He adored her for it - her refusal to admit the softer side of her womanhood, yet always eager to smugly inform him that she, his only intellectual match, was indeed a woman.

Holmes sat back lazily in his chair, tenting his fingers as he settled into deep thought about her. He had come in disguise to the Opera to see her perform, for knowing she had returned to London made his heart skip a beat. He frowned, remembering how Watson had good-naturedly, but mockingly, noticed the posters for her performance on the way home to Baker Street the previous night. It was no matter, though, for here she was in all her majesty - back in London, and soon enough too, back in his life.

As her chief handmaiden placed a corsage of violets strung with ribbons and lace on her wrist, Holmes watched as Irene brought her hands to her bosom before flinging out her arms in the triumphant end of the act. He smiled in watching her exude such joy, the violets serving a beautiful addition to her already flawless appearance. The flowers were perfect for her, and as the curtain closed that night, Holmes found himself devising the perfect plan to see her.


	4. Decidedly NOT Roses

Irene stepped out of the cab into the night air with a gleaming smile, wiggling her fingers free of the gentleman's lips holding her hand hostage. She winked at him coquettishly as he tipped his hat to her and closed the hansom door, his vow already made to see her again tomorrow night at her show. She looked over her shoulder at the cab once more before entering The Grand Hotel, smiling again as the face in the back window begged for a final glance. Irene would never see him again, for she had absolutely no intention of entertaining him anymore. She'd make absolutely sure to completely and entirely forget him.

She handed in her check-in card at the desk for the concierge to find her key in the cabinet, briefly noticing a bouquet of purple flowers lying on the marble countertop. They were very pretty, and the person receiving them must have found someone special to be receiving such gifts from. She was stunned silent when the man held them out for her to take.

"Room 727, madam." he nodded. "They're quite beautiful."

They weren't roses, and that was what intrigued her most. "Who are they from?" she was sure to ask it absentmindedly, purposely sounding distant and disinterested.

"One of the delivery boys brought them by, madam. But there was this card." The porter handed her a small white envelope along with her room key. Irene couldn't help herself as she tore open the small note, her decorum of indifference hastily forgotten.

_I am no admirer who waits for your attention, but as you have told me before, "in violets I balance." _

The note was unsigned, but Irene knew the sender immediately from that simple quote. She gazed at the flowers again before re-reading the note.

"Someone you know, madam?" the porter asked.

"Oh yes, I know him very well." She responded with a smirk as she plucked a single violet from the bouquet and tucked it into her hair. "Deliver this up to my room, please," she asked kindly, holding out the flowers. "I'll return later."

The porter checked his watch before looking at her warily. "Right away," he answered and she nodded.

Irene quickly headed back out to hail another cab. "Baker Street, and quickly too." she urged the driver. She knew it was late, but Sherlock never slept.


	5. Their Fateful Meeting

_A/N: Ah, how life inspires art...__ Holmes/Adler fans, care to imagine what you will at the end of this chapter. I've left you plenty of fantasizing space._**_ ~DZ~_**

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"Miss Adler, finally making her entrance." Holmes mused as he opened the door of 221B to Irene, as the rest of the house was long since asleep.

"Ah, but it was _you_ who came to see me first. With a terrible Cockney accent you tried to pass off in the cab." Irene countered, plucking the violet from her swept up curls and handing it to him. He smirked amusedly, realizing she could still see through his cleverest tricks.

He took her jacket and hung it on the peg, catching a glimpse of her shiver as she adjusted from the cold air outside. He allowed her to lead the way upstairs to the sitting room, offering her his chair in front of the fire. He was unsurprised when she refused, choosing to stand instead. She had come here to tell him something important.

"I don't want to lose you again." Holmes admitted quietly, interrupting her before she could begin. He was stunned he even allowed himself to confess his feelings for her.

Irene smiled, finally dropping into his armchair. "Right to business," she chuckled. "I always did like that about you, Sherlock."

"I know you don't like to waste your time." Holmes commented matter-of-factly.

"If anything at all," Irene went on, her lips curled into a smile, "I was the one to lose _you_."

"You _left_, Irene."

"That wasn't to say I didn't want to stay. I did." Irene's fingers found their way into his grasp.

Holmes let go of her hand and abruptly stood up, examining the wall facing away from her. "Then you should have stayed, Irene."

"Stayed for _what_, Sherlock?" She challenged him. "To spend some time on London's most wanted list until you _yourself_ would drag me to jail?"

"I'd have _easily _let you escape."

"And the police? Would they oblige as well?" Irene narrowed her eyes at him.

"They are very easy to distract."

"If you wanted me to stay, Sherlock, you never tried to make me." Irene raised an eyebrow.

"Would you have listened, even if I had?" Holmes retorted as his own challenge.

Irene was able to hold his gaze, but only until she saw a brief flash of hurt in his eyes. Her gaze fell to the floor, pride disappearing as her shoulders slumped. "I might have," she whispered, cursing the tears which filled her eyes.

"Lies, even now." Holmes spat at her. "How sly you are, deceiving at every turn."

"Sherlock," Irene sniffed, "do you have any idea how hard it's been to come back here? To stop myself from racing to Baker Street?"

"Why do you think I even _went_ to the opera?" Holmes asked.

"It's obvious we miss each other, Sherlock." Holmes shuddered involuntarily at the way she purred his name. "Why don't you admit that you miss me?"

When he turned around, she was suddenly there in front of him. She kissed him passionately, stopping the protest which was hot on his lips. She wove her fingertips into his hair, ready to show him exactly _what_ he was missing.

"Irene," he whispered, voice shaking as he pulled away.

"No, Sherlock. Don't say another word." She leaned into him again, just as he turned his head away from her and she grazed the stubble on his chin with another kiss.

"Irene," Holmes said more firmly, commanding her attention. "We cannot be together. You and I know that."

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm growing so tired of the games we play." She kissed him pleadingly. "Aren't you?"

"It doesn't matter. It has to be this way." Holmes stated. He sounded more sure of the fact than he actually felt. Irene had started trailing her kisses down his jawline.

"Even tonight, Sherlock? Must it be the same way tonight?" She glanced briefly at him, pausing in her kisses.

He looked at her, scanning her face for signs of trickery. He reached behind her and undid her hair, tossing the dagger hairclip onto the table while her hair cascaded down her back. She smirked at him as he tilted her chin up ever so slightly. "Now that you're unarmed, Irene, perhaps it can be different."


	6. And as for Miss Adler?

_A/N: final chapter. It's been a pleasure. **~DZ~**_

* * *

When Holmes awoke in the morning, he was relieved to find himself _not_ handcuffed to the bed, or stuck in another one of Irene's schemes. He did, however, find himself alone. He quickly put on his dressing gown and hurried into the sitting room. Empty. Not a single trace of her.

He knocked the mantelpiece with a balled-up fist and sunk down into his armchair, lighting his pipe. The _one_ chance they had of calling off their game, and she ran away with it. How stupid he was to admit himself to her, to give her their one night together. She didn't deserve it now!

The note he'd been sitting on fluttered down onto his bare feet. Folded over, with his initials in her careful script, and the lingering scent of her Parisian perfume. Ever the diva, she knew how to make an exit.

_You were right all along, my darling detective. We will always be intertwined, but never together. This is how things must be._

That insufferable woman! Yet, Holmes couldn't help but smile at her parting words.

_Perhaps I will schedule a European opera tour for the summer. IA._

He stared into the cold fireplace just as a flower petal dropped from the mantle above. She'd left him a small vase full of violets, the card reading "S.H." and signed with a lipstick kiss.


End file.
